Reflection

by Sara Young

I hold my reflection in my hands. 

The glass looks so fragile,

I worry it might break.


The blurred mass I hold,

In the glass stares at me,

But does not see. 


Two hollow inlets house 

Vacant eyes, which glaze over, 

As though icing, on a cake. 


Soured-milk white 

Complexion twists into 

Skin stretched over a skeleton.


Two crusted, dry

Red-stained lips 

Part for the screeching mouth.